


pretend to love me

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Idiots in Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 22:58:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1099572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas break usually means family, food and festive cheer. For Combeferre, it's a quiet week at home enjoying the company of good books and occasionally skyping with Enjolras. </p><p>And then, Courfeyrac invites Combeferre to his annual family dinner as his boyfriend. There are two problems with this: the first, they're not boyfriends. The second? Combeferre would very much like them to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	pretend to love me

**Author's Note:**

> have some festive cheer. as always, my thanks to [kii](http://kiyala.tumblr.com) for being absolutely wonderful.

In all honesty, Combeferre should have known better. Especially when Courfeyrac waited until they'd boarded the plane to tell Combeferre exactly why he needed to tag along to Courfeyrac's family Christmas. 

Combeferre steeples his hands on the dinner tray in front of him, fingernails whitening as he tries to calm his temper. "Run that by me again." 

“I may or may not have implied,” Courfeyrac mumbles, and Combeferre is glad to hear the hint of an apology in his voice. “That we were together. As in more than just friends, together. As in I am bringing you, my boyfriend Combeferre, home for Christmas.”

"Even though I am not, in fact, your boyfriend."

Courfeyrac winces. "Right." 

Combeferre screws his eyes shut and breathes deeply. A headache begins to throb behind his temples, and he growls when Courfeyrac cautiously whispers his name. He focuses only on his breathing and the rumbling of the airplane's engine for several long moments, holding in a groan when Courfeyrac speaks again. 

“She asked if I was bringing anyone over and I said no." Courfeyrac explains frantically, voice hushed. "But then she started suggesting potential partners and I told her I already had one. I may or may not have accidentally mentioned your name is all. You _know_ how she gets, 'Ferre.”

And Combeferre does. He knows exactly what Courfeyrac's mother is like, has spent the better half of his youth in her care. She's sweet and caring, lovely and warm and so much like Courfeyrac that Combeferre hates lying to her in the same way he hates lying to Courfeyrac. Half an hour passes before he feels calm enough to reply, and in that time Courfeyrac seems to have fallen asleep against his shoulder, lips grazing the wool of his jumper. 

"I'll do it, for you." Combeferre sighs, rolling his eyes when Courfeyrac hums happily, not as asleep as Combeferre assumed. "But I hate lying to her, and I won't let this drag on for too long."

'You're the best." Courfeyrac mumbles, smiling when Combeferre presses his nose into Courfeyrac's curls. He reaches for Combeferre's hand and twines their fingers, squeezing gently, before nuzzling Combeferre's neck. 

Just before he falls asleep, Combeferre wonders how he's going to hide how head over heels in love with Courfeyrac he  _really_ is. 

-

When Combeferre opens his eyes, he notices two things. First, most of the runaway is white with freshly fallen snow. Second, Courfeyrac is awake and staring at him intently, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

It reminds Combeferre of how he’d woken up earlier that morning. As is their usual routine Combeferre had heard Courfeyrac stumble into his bedroom and held up the corner of his duvet blindly, expecting Courfeyrac to fall into bed beside him. When Combeferre had started getting cold, he’d opened his eyes to see Courfeyrac crouching at his bedside, smiling softly. It had taken three cups of coffee and a slice of toast for Combeferre to wake up enough and realise that there was a sudden change of plans, and that he'd be accompanying Courfeyrac to his family home for Christmas. 

“Come on, sleepy.” Courfeyrac grins as people begin to collect their bags from the overhead cabins. He pulls Combeferre to his feet and, after slight manoeuvring, rushes them down the aisle so that they're some of the first passengers off the plane. Combeferre is thankful that they only have one suitcase between them as he notices the hordes of people huddled around carousels. Their passports, his laptop and Courfeyrac’s tablet are all kept in Combeferre’s old leather satchel, that he'd kept by his feet for most of the flight, and had made their journey significantly lighter. 

He allows Courfeyrac to lead the way and fell into step a few paces behind, tapping out messages on his phone to their friends to notify them of his change of plans. Unsurprisingly, most of them are from Enjolras and he smiles as he sends off a lengthy reply. Combeferre is so distracted that he doesn’t notice Courfeyrac abandoning their suitcase to run to his sister. It’s because of this that he almost trips over their luggage, looking up with a sheepish smile when he sees the three siblings laughing before continuing towards them. He watches fondly as they adorn Courfeyrac with kisses before they take him by surprise, pulling him into a tight embrace and leaving Courfeyrac to trail behind them with the luggage. 

The remaining journey to Courfeyrac’s home is eventful, with Courfeyrac and Michelle doing their best to serenade Combeferre. Michelle throws her head back each time Courfeyrac winks, and pinches Combeferre’s cheek teasingly when he ducks his head in embarrassment. Combeferre isn’t surprised when Michael eventually joins in and hides his face in his hands, muttering something about being the only sane one in the car as Courfeyrac’s laughter rolls over him in gentle waves. 

They barely manage to stumble out of the car before Courfeyrac's mother is pulling both of them towards her, fussing over their hair and the amount of weight they've lost since she saw them last. Combeferre hugs her back just as tight, screwing his eyes shut when she presses a kiss to his cheek. 

"You look more like your mother with each day," she whispers as she pulls back, squeezing his shoulders. The three siblings are suspiciously silent as they walk past, and allow Adele and Combeferre a moment of privacy. He strokes her cheek with the pad of his thumb, throat dry. "She would be proud of you, little one." 

Combeferre takes a shaky breath and hugs her, feels more grounded with every breath she exhales by his ear. 

"Come on now, we'll both catch a cold if we stay here any longer." 

She pats his cheek and leads him into the house with a warm smile, waving her hand dismissively when they praise the new decor but there's a prideful glint in her eyes when she thanks them. Courfeyrac meets Combeferre's gaze over her head and smiles, shrugging his shoulders helplessly when she starts complaining about his father. 

It's so easy being here, being  _home_ , that Combeferre forgets all about his agreement with Courfeyrac. He doesn't think twice about tangling their fingers together when Courfeyrac hugs him from behind, or shaking his head fondly when Courfeyrac kisses his temple. He's used to it, now, to having Courfeyrac in nearly every way possible and not enough at all. Except then Courfeyrac starts drawing into himself, keeping his distance from Combeferre, and the change in demeanour is so sudden that it hurts and frustrates him. Knowing that he can't confront Courfeyrac about it, Combeferre takes refuge in the living room with a warm cup of tea and a book he borrowed from the study, content to listen to the distant chatter of the family as they bustle in the kitchen. 

Combeferre doesn't expect Courfeyrac to come searching for him only twenty minutes after he's disappeared, expression laced with worry that gives way to something gentle the moment he lays eyes on Combeferre.

"Hey you." Courfeyrac murmurs, nudging Combeferre's shoulder with his own as he takes a seat beside him. 

Combeferre hums but says nothing, returning to the book with newfound interest. 

"I'm sorry." Courfeyrac says eventually, shoulder's sagging. 

"Are you?" 

Courfeyrac cups his face and forces Combeferre to turn and face him. He presses their foreheads together without taking his eyes away and nods, once, running his thumb down Combeferre's cheek. 

"Before anything else," Combeferre says, "I'm your best friend. Remember that." 

Courfeyrac nods again, and makes to move away, but Combeferre keeps him close. After a little shuffling, Courfeyrac has his legs between Combeferre's, half-way on his lap, and is pressed closely into Combeferre's side. They sit in silence for a little while longer until they hear Adele's voice grow louder as she moves closer to the living room. Combeferre steals a glance in her direction and notices how she lingers in the doorway, her eyes soft as she stares at them before nodding, as if she's reached a conclusion. 

One by one, the rest of the family migrate into the living room and begin talking loudly amongst themselves. They're wonderful, Combeferre thinks, and have always been. Each one of them radiates their own type of light. Not like Enjolras's, which is both enticing and destructive, passionate beyond belief. No, this light is a gentle glow that welcomes and warms and  _loves,_ and Courfeyrac is the brightest of them all. It was one of the first things that drew Combeferre to him, the hint of a spark in his eyes and the way he danced around, always so full of life. He was gorgeous, even then, but now he's become something more. Something beautiful. 

He smiles as he recognises the story Courfeyrac is recounting to Michelle, when Enjolras had locked himself in a bathroom, embarrassed, after telling Grantaire he loved him. He snorts at the slight exaggerations and grins when Courfeyrac huffs at him, daring Combeferre to prove him wrong. Courfeyrac is sweet like this, the baby of the family and yet not the youngest of them. Bundled in one of Combeferre's baggy jumpers, one he stole several years ago, he looks like an angry child that looks more amusing than it does threatening. The thought causes Combeferre to laugh even harder. 

"When did Combeferre ask  _you_ out, hotshot?" Michelle interrupts, and Combeferre feels Courfeyrac stiffen beside him. He squeezes Courfeyrac's hand reassuringly and lets out a shaky breath, knocking their knees together when Courfeyrac rubs small circles on the inside of Combeferre's wrist to calm himself before answering. 

Courfeyrac huffs under his breath, as if he didn't just panic. “Who said he’s the one who asked?”

“You’re telling me that _you_ asked _him_?”

“It was more like a series of dates we didn’t know we were having,” Combeferre explains as Courfeyrac makes a face at Michelle, furrowing his brows at her.

“I’d say we went on five dates before we realised we were, well, dating. We were at the botanic gardens, I think?” Courfeyrac admits, and he suddenly sounds a lot less sure of himself. Combeferre glances at him from the corner of his eye, wants to lean down and ask what's wrong, but refrains from doing so when he feels Michael staring at him from across the room. 

Combeferre nods his head in conformation. He remembers the day well; remembers how Courfeyrac had shown up at his apartment early in the morning with two tickets to the annual garden festival. Combeferre had thanked Courfeyrac repeatedly throughout the day, and had flushed in embarrassment each time Courfeyrac had assured him that it was fine, that he wanted to spend the day together. They’d spent the better half of day finding trees to hide in and sitting in the large vegetable patches, having lunch and then tea at a quiet café in the more secluded areas of the garden.

“It was mid-June I believe.”

"Yeah, and you seriously contemplated ditching me for the moths half way through." Courfeyrac turns to grin at his family when Combeferre ducks his head, cheeks flushing in embarrassment. “Seriously, it was like walking around with an encyclopaedia for the whole day. You should have seen him when we entered the greenhouses, he came out with green fingers.”

"If we're calling each other out, let's not hasten to forget you and the butterflies." Combeferre feels a smirk tugging at his lips when Courfeyrac pales slightly, shaking his head adamantly as if it will stop Combeferre from embarrassing him. “Every other second I would hear Courfeyrac shouting from a different corner of the conservatory as he found yet _another_ species.”

“They were cool, okay?”

“’Cool’ is not the word you used a the time. I believe your vocabulary was limited to _pretty_ and _cute_.” When Adele laughs, Combeferre continues in a perfect imitation of Courfeyrac’s voice, “ _I’m cute right? Do you think they’ll like me? I’m basically a butterfly_.”

“Yeah alright, smartass.” Courfeyrac grins at Combeferre, and if Combeferre weren't so in tune with every _breath_ of his, he'd miss the strange expression that flickers across Courfeyrac's face. 

There's a momentary silence, and then Courfeyrac glances at Adele and sees that she's waiting expectantly for more. “We’re always going to museums and zoos. I mean I’m dating my best friend you know? It’s so easy to know where and when he wants to go, what'll make him happy - and that's the most important thing. So, it’s…it’s really great.”

And they are, but also more than. Everything they do with or for each other is second natural, some natural instinct that came to light when they met. They meet all aspects of a cliché relationship without being involved in one, causing them to be mistaken for a couple on more than one occasion. So when Combeferre had realised that he was in love with his best friend, painfully so, it had hurt. It had hurt even more to realise that the love was unrequited, but he kept quiet because keeping quiet meant they still went out on Not-Dates and shared Almost Kisses, and that was more than Combeferre knew he deserved. 

He nestles further into Courfeyrac's side, playing absently with their joint hands, and finds their voices lulling him to sleep. He fights the urge to close his eyes but inevitably fails, as he wakes two hours later with his head on Courfeyrac's lap, Courfeyrac's fingers smoothing hair back from his temple as he hums softly under his breath. Combeferre becomes dizzy as he rushes to get up, apologising profusely for falling asleep on them. 

Adele is quick to hush him, kissing his cheek as she wishes him goodnight before waving Courfeyrac to follow. 

Walking up the stairs is much harder when you're half conscious and your legs feel numb. Combeferre hears Courfeyrac laugh from somewhere behind him and vaguely registers being carried to what will be their bedroom for the next few days, blinking owlishly as Courfeyrac helps him undress before tucking him into the covers. Courfeyrac is quick to get dressed himself, and gently slips in beside Combeferre, wrapping an arm around Combeferre's waist and pulling him close. His chest is pressed to Combeferre's back, their legs and hands tangled together as warmth envelopes them. 

"Love you." Courfeyrac murmurs into the back of Combeferre's neck. He laughs when Combeferre replies, confession muffled in the sheets. 

-

The next morning, Combeferre wakes at ten to the smell of freshly cooked breakfast and the faint traces of coconut body wash that Courfeyrac uses in the shower. He nuzzles closer, content to stay with Courfeyrac for as long as possible. Mornings like these are one of the many things Combeferre savours in his frustratingly tactile relationship with Courfeyrac. To wake up and see Courfeyrac next to him nearly every other morning, reluctant to remove himself from their tangled limbs. To see Courfeyrac’s first and softest smile of the day, to know it’s for him, _because_ of him.

Courfeyrac shifts and turns his face into Combeferre's shoulder, pressing a soft kiss to his collarbone. Combeferre stills, breathes deeply for several long moments, before forcing himself to relax. He reaches out to tug at a wayward curl in Courfeyrac's hair, pulling gently with his thumb and forefinger. 

"Morning." Combeferre whispers, as if staying quiet will help savour this moment. He wants Courfeyrac to get up and move away so that Combeferre has room to breathe, and yet he wants to stay like this for as long as possible. He feels his eyes grow heavy with sleep and comfort, and shakes his head. He tugs harder at the curl. 

"Don't want- " Courfeyrac trails off, words lost against Combeferre's skin. Combeferre laughs, it's the only thing he can do to keep himself together. 

“Come on, sunshine." Combeferre murmurs, trying to get up. He only manages to move until his back is resting uncomfortably against the headboard before Courfeyrac is groaning unhappily, tightening his hold around Combeferre. He smiles when Courfeyrac presses his nose into Combeferre's abdomen, but it falls when he feels Courfeyrac's breath ghosting his hip. "Courf- come on."

Courfeyrac grumbles, opens his eyes into slits. "I like it better when you call me sunshine." 

"You know what you are?" Combeferre asks, tempted to throw his hands up in mock frustration. He keeps his fingers twirling around Courfeyrac's curls instead. "You're bloody difficult, is what."

Combeferre rolls his eyes when Courfeyrac makes no move to get up. Instead, he shuffles until he's sat more comfortably with Courfeyrac's head now pillowed in his lap. He waits patiently, knows that Courfeyrac is going through his long process of waking up, and smiles when Courfeyrac finally opens his eyes and grins. It would be easy, Combeferre thinks, to lean down and press his lips to Courfeyrac's. He won't, though, because Combeferre is too selfish to hurt himself any further. He contents himself with playing with Courfeyrac's hair as Courfeyrac continues to look up at him with something strange in his eyes, something akin to wonder, until their door slams open. 

Michelle enters with a large green scarf around her neck despite the fact that she's still in her pyjamas. She takes one look at them before jumping onto the bed, barely missing Combeferre's knee as she rests her head beside his thigh, lifting her head so she can get a better look at Courfeyrac. 

"Is he not getting up?" She asks, half exasperated, half fond.

"What does it look like?" Courfeyrac answers immediately, frowning at the intrusion and turning his face to hide it in Combeferre's thigh. Combeferre's hands still in his hair as he tries not to push Courfeyrac away, and then proceeds to fumble with the strings of his trousers.

“Get up you lazy ass,” she says after several minutes. “We’re going to decorate the house today, we waited for you-“

Courfeyrac is running into the bathroom before she can finish, shouting delightedly. Combeferre looks after him with a small smile and wonders, not for the first time, how he's come to love such an impossibly childish and foolish man. Courfeyrac swears as he trips over something, and Combeferre laughs under his breath. Michelle opens her mouth to ask something, but he raises his finger and nods his head, waits several seconds until-

“‘Ferre,” Courfeyrac's voice echoes in the bathroom. “Where are my-“

“Cupboard underneath the sink.”

"Thanks!" Courfeyrac's voice is muffled by the running water as he  steps into the shower. Combeferre lowers his finger and rubs a hand down his face, the idea of freshening up keeping him from crawling back under the covers. He leans back against the headboard and waits for Michelle to mimic his position before wrapping an arm around her shoulders and huddling her closer. If Adele was like a mother, Michelle was like a younger sister. She sighs contentedly and watches as he replies to his texts, enquiring after Enjolras and Joly when she sees the plethora of messages they've sent him. He answers all messages with a smile on his face, suddenly missing them.

Christmas is the only time in the year when they’re not together. Usually Combeferre will stay in the city as his friends return to their families, his mother having died several years earlier. Although Courfeyrac and Enjolras invite him each year, Combeferre often refuses despite knowing that his visit would be considered anything but an intrusion. Many a time this has been useful, with Grantaire, Jehan or Feuilly returning early in the holidays and living with Combeferre until New Years where everyone returns to Paris to celebrate together.

“When did he realise he loved you?” Michelle asks, disrupting his train of thought. Combeferre pauses, ready to tell her that Courfeyrac hasn't realised- _doesn't_ love him, before he remembers why he's here in the first place. He looks down at her, at her smile so similar to Courfeyrac's, and he hates them. Hates them all for loving him and for making Combeferre lie. 

“That’s something you’ll have to ask him, I’m afraid.”

“You surprised me, though.” Michelle sighs. The shower stops running.

Combeferre stiffens, gulps audibly. “How so?”

“Well Courf wears his heart on his sleeve, but he was always really subtle about you. And you’re mister cool-calm-and-collected but you were so _obvious_.”

“Obvious?” Combeferre absently thinks Courfeyrac must be an incredibly talented actor if he’s managed to convince Michelle, one of the sharpest people Combeferre knows, into thinking he's is in love with Combeferre. Because if anything, if it were true, Combeferre would know. He would know and explore and cherish the fact, would let Courfeyrac tear him apart and put him back together. If it were true, Courfeyrac wouldn't hide it from Combeferre. 

“Incredibly so. I mean, I’ve known about it since your mum died.” 

Combeferre’s eyes dart to the open bathroom door before returning to Michelle. She's suddenly tense, as if she regrets brining it up, and he squeezes her shoulder to assure her that it's alright. It's been years since his mother passed, and he's been surrounded by such love and understand that he was able to come to terms with it in his own time and his own way. 

He hums curiously, but says nothing further. Michelle continues.

"What was about him, then? Is it just because he's your best friend, and it's familiar?"   

Combeferre furrows his brows and shakes his head, tries to think of how best to explain it. There's more to Courfeyrac than his role as Combeferre's best friend. There are his eyes, his smile, his mouth - all of them so incredibly kind and gentle, all of them beautiful. How he laughs at his own jokes and makes a fool of himself to cheer others up, to cheer Combeferre up, because more than anything else Courfeyrac is capable of eternal and  love. There's his kindness and selflessness, and his extreme intelligence that works to humble Combeferre and reason with him. It's easier to  _breathe_    when Courfeyrac’s around.

“It’s hard not to fall in love with him, no matter who or what or how he is." He says instead.

“Ever the romantic.” Michelle huffs under her breath. She sounds so similar to Courfeyrac that it takes a moment for Combeferre to ground himself, and remind himself that Courfeyrac is in the bathroom and can't hear him. If he could, then he would know immediately how Combeferre feels.

“You want me to talk about how in love I am with your brother?” He eventually deadpans, raising an eyebrow.

“Why not? I mean personally,” she teases, “I don’t see much to love.”

“I could spend hours talking about him, god knows Enjolras has heard enough. It’s not- it’s,” Combeferre pauses, struggling to find the words. Struggling to explain that everything about Courfeyrac, from the curls of his eyelashes to the light he radiates, deserves the strongest love. 

He feels Michelle's gaze on him and looks down to find her staring, wide eyed. “I can’t believe he makes you speechless.” 

They sit together in silence, Courfeyrac humming quietly in the bathroom. Combeferre closes his eyes and loosens his grip on Michelle's shoulders, takes a shaky breath.

“When my mother died," Combeferre says, voice quiet. "I lost my home. I remember sitting by her gravestone after the funeral - I can’t remember where everyone else had gone, the wake perhaps - and I realised two things. I was impossibly lonely, and that I probably always would be.

And then suddenly, Courfeyrac was sitting next to me. Suit hanging off his small frame and shoe soles already dirty, handing me a red tulip with the brightest smile on his face. And it was like this warmth had enveloped me. Being _next_ to him felt like home- do you get that? I was mourning my only home when suddenly I found another, another person who encompassed everything for me. I was too young to even understand the tremendousness of that. When you look at it now, I suppose I couldn’t be anything but obvious.”

Combeferre shrugs, careful not to dislodge Michelle as she rests her head on his shoulder.

“Who’d have thought,” she murmurs absently. She stays quiet, as if deep in thought, and only moves when Courfeyrac stumbles out of the bathroom. Combeferre watches a bead of water trail from his hair down his chest, and looks away when he sees Courfeyrac's boxers hanging loosely on his hips. It's strange, to feel like this now when he's seen Courfeyrac naked. Then again, he's never pretended to be in love with someone he's actually in love with. Perhaps it's the atmosphere, the way Michelle smirks at him knowingly, or how Courfeyrac is looking at Combeferre like he's the only thing in the world, but Combeferre sits up quickly and gathers his clothes. 

Combeferre makes sure to lock the door behind him when he rushes into the bathroom. 

He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, tugging at his hair furiously. His reflection stares back at him hopelessly, the steam from Courfeyrac's shower condensing on the mirror. He's an idiot, such a _fucking idiot._ He can do this, he can. He's been alone with Courfeyrac before, has shared a bed with him and clothes with him - they've been on dates without knowing it and laughed without any insecurity when asked if they were a couple. Except, Combeferre really can't. There's something about Courfeyrac's morning kisses and lingering gazes, his reluctance to be far from Combeferre and his weariness to be near, that has Combeferre close to tipping over the edge. 

He's not sure what's happened, what's been said, but Courfeyrac is acting differently and it scares him. Especially because, for some unexplainable reason, his senses are heightened here and he’s slowly but surely losing what little control he has.

The shower is cold when he first steps under the spray, but it gradually warms up until his skin is reddening with the heat. The water pelts his back as he leans his head against the tiles, tiredness fading into weariness as he scrubs himself down with soap. When he walks out of the shower, he smells of Courfeyrac, and he hates it. Hates that he's surrounded, lost completely in Courfeyrac's touch, sight, sound, smell and that he's never felt safer in his life. 

He walks out of the bathroom twenty minutes later in search of a shirt. Courfeyrac is sitting on the corner of the bed, and he wordlessly holds out a large jumper for Combeferre. He opens his mouth, as if to ask a question, but then smiles tightly as Combeferre pulls the sweater over his head. The moment from earlier has disappeared, the gentle morning haze that had held them suspended now gone and replaced with something akin to tension. Combeferre says nothing, and follows Courfeyrac quietly downstairs into the kitchen. 

While everyone seems to be happy, excited now that Christmas is a day closer, Combeferre feels dread settle within him when Courfeyrac refuses even to look his way for longer than a moment. Everything is forced between them, none of the relaxed happiness of earlier, and he wonders for the fifth time since his arrival whether it would have been better for him not to come at all. 

Adele sits between them as they eat, her questions alternating between their degrees, jobs and relationship. Although they try their best to act as they normally would, she easily notices the tension between them. It becomes obvious when Courfeyrac heads straight into the living room after he's finished breakfast, pressing a chaste kiss to Adele's forehead as he passes. She looks at Combeferre as Courfeyrac walks out and smiles sadly, as if she  _knows_ . 

Combeferre hopes that as the day draws on, things will improve. He hopes that Courfeyrac will talk to him, would rather they act as if everything's normal than whatever is troubling him. Instead, Courfeyrac keeps his distance, kisses Combeferre when it's appropriate and holds his hand in the living room while he talks to his siblings. They sleep on separate sides of the bed, and when they wake facing each other Courfeyrac is the first to look away.

By the fourth day, it becomes too much to handle. This isn't Courfeyrac, not Combeferre's Courfeyrac and not his best friend, and despite feeling comfortable here, the place isn't  _home_ and Combeferre has never felt so isolated in his life. Excusing himself from lunch, he retreats into the large conservatory.  He crosses his legs underneath him as he sinks into the cushions, content to listen to Christmas songs echoing through the house, and watches the snow fall gently through windows that overlook the beautiful garden outside.

Eventually his coffee grows cold and he’s forced to return to the kitchen and make himself another mug, smiling faintly when he hears Michelle shouting at them all for ruining her tree. He doesn't notice Michael entering the kitchen until he turns around, managing to put his coffee down before it spills down his shirt. 

“Combeferre,” Michael exclaims, pulling him into an unexpected hug. “We haven’t had a chance to talk properly. How’ve you been, kid?”

If Combeferre had to credit his good manners to anyone but his mother, it would be Michael. Michael had been the one to show Combeferre what respect truly meant, to know when to pick battles and fight for a cause. Michael had been the older brother and the father figure Combeferre had confided in in times of need, who had cared for him free of judgement and loved him completely. Despite their age, Combeferre still feels the same closeness and protection with Michael as he had done when he was child.

“I’ve been fine, I think. And yourself?” Combeferre leans back against the counter and sips at his coffee, happy to listen to Michael talk about his recent promotion and plans for his wife's birthday.

“Tell me though,” Michael cuts himself off, looking quizzically at Combeferre. “When did my brother get his head out of his ass?”

Combeferre prays that Michael doesn’t notice the way his shoulders stiffen, how his hand trembles slightly as he puts his mug back on the table. "You'd have to ask him, really. I think it's still shoved up there." 

Michael's laugh rings through the kitchen as he throws his head back, dimples set in his cheeks that remind Combeferre too much of Courfeyrac. “I’d do the whole big brother thing but I know you’re the last person who’d hurt him.”

It's true, and he would know better than anyone. Combeferre remembers confiding in Michael, voice tearful down the phone as he asked what to do. It was hard being so in love with Courfeyrac and Courfeyrac being so ignorant of him. He remembers Michael arriving at their university for a surprise visit, spending most of his time calming Combeferre down, teaching Combeferre more about patience in one night than he’d ever known. Courfeyrac had joked that Combeferre was stealing his brother, and Michael his best friend, and both of them had smiled because they loved him. 

The comfortable silence that falls between them is interrupted when Courfeyrac stumbles into the kitchen, leaning against the doorframe as he tries to catch his breath. Michael takes it as his queue to leave and grins at Courfeyrac as he passes, but Combeferre recognises the tightness of Michael's smile and looks away when he whispers something to Courfeyrac under his breath. Combeferre tries to smile too, knowing that it comes out as more of a grimace, and makes to follow Michael out of the kitchen and go to his and Courfeyrac’s bedroom. He's stopped when Courfeyrac reaches out to curl his fingers around Combeferre's wrist, and his shoulders sag. 

It's awful, that he should feel so comforted and grounded by a single touch. He knows that it's unhealthy, to make a home in a person, and yet. And yet.

“Come into the living room," Courfeyrac says, but it's a quiet murmur - a request. "We're about to finish decorating the tree.” And god, Combeferre doesn’t want to follow Courfeyrac, he doesn’t want to show just how weak he is, but he goes anyway because he's stupid and lonely and too in love to do anything else. 

He sits between Michelle and Adele as Michael and Courfeyrac finish decorating the tree. It’s impossibly tall and green, gold and red baubles and tinsel hanging off the branches, fairy lights twinkling between them and hanging on the windowsills. It's almost easy to forget the past few days, the weary set of his shoulders and tightness of his expression. This is his family, part of, and this is his home, and surrounded by them it's easy to forget his hurt. 

He ends up singing along loudly to Christmas carols and helping Michelle sit the angel on top of the tree, balancing her on his shoulders. He narrowly avoids crashing into it when Courfeyrac chases him around the living room, eventually tackling him to the ground with a shout of victory and then peppering Combeferre’s cheeks with kisses. They're both blushing furiously when they break apart, Adele's laughter reminding them they're in company and that Courfeyrac has spent the better part of the holiday ignoring Combeferre.

By midnight, the house has been fully decorated, dinner served, and Combeferre’s second mug of hot chocolate downed. 

Adele retreated upstairs for an early night an hour or so after dinner, leaving Combeferre downstairs with the family. Courfeyrac is sat on the floor below him as he lounges on the cough, his head resting on the armrest as he absently plays with Courfeyrac's curls. He tries to ignore the hopeful flutter in his chest when Courfeyrac leans into his touch. Combeferre allows the siblings voices to wash over him, and smiled when Brittany meets his gaze from across the room. She rolls her eyes fondly, as if to say ' _can you believe them._ '

Combeferre had only met her a handful of times before Michael had called him and Courfeyrac, just under a year ago, to reveal the news of his engagement. As expected, both of them had booked the next flight to Orléans and had spent the weekend celebrating with Michael and his fiancée. 

It's another hour before Courfeyrac starts to yawn half way through each sentence, stretching his arms above his head. Courfeyrac tilts his face and presses his cheek into the shell of Combeferre's palm, asking if he's ready to go to bed with a gentle smile. Combeferre nods in reply, muffling his yawn in his elbow as he stands but then taking a moment to steady himself, raking a hand through his hair tiredly. 

They're about to cross the threshold from the living room into the hallway, Courfeyrac only a step behind him, when Michelle laughs excitedly and points at something above their head.

Combeferre purses his lips as he turns around, silently curses whoever thought it would be a good idea to put mistletoe above the door. 

He's surprised to find Courfeyrac looking at him when he averts his gaze from Michelle, an eyebrow raised challengingly. Combeferre frowns as he steps forward, moves easily when Courfeyrac wraps an arm around his torso to press their bodies together. 

Everything is impossibly still compared to the steady rise and fall of Courfeyrac's chest. Quiet, save the rapid beating of his heart. Combeferre's mouth parts in surprise, a question on the tip of his tongue, but finds himself at a loss for words when Courfeyrac presses their lips together. 

There is nothing but this.

But them.

It’s everything Combeferre has dreamed of and his worst nightmare all at once. Whatever remaining shred of sanity he has is lost in the soft gasp Courfeyrac lets out when Combeferre kisses back, running his tongue along the seam of Courfeyrac's mouth. His hands cup Courfeyrac's neck as the kiss becomes less chaste, breath hitching when he feels Courfeyrac's warm tongue against his, moving gently as if he wants to memorise the small crevices of Combeferre's mouth. Combeferre can feel Courfeyrac's hands moving up his body, gripping at his shirt, but then all too soon the flash of a camera breaks them apart. 

Combeferre flushes when Michelle and Brittany whistle, ducks his head when they ask for an encore. It's all just pretence, Combeferre remembers and clenches his fists when he meets Michael's gaze, realises that Michael _knows_. He turns his face away, ashamed, and refuses to look at Courfeyrac as they make their way up the stairs. 

His skin feels like it's on fire, the places where Courfeyrac had touched him burning, and the taste of dark chocolate still lingering on his lips. 

The heavy silence between them lasts until they're both dressed for bed, sitting on opposite ends of the mattress. Combeferre can feel the hairs on his skin prickle, all too aware of Courfeyrac's gaze on him, and bites the inside of his lip as Courfeyrac asks what's wrong. Unable to answer, Combeferre shrugs and prays that Courfeyrac will let the matter drop, but screws his eyes shut when Courfeyrac repeats his name. 

“Why are you being so _childish_?” Courfeyrac sounds so exasperated that Combeferre can’t help the bubble of laughter that escapes his mouth. He probably sounds half mad.

Combeferre looks up, allowing days worth of anger and sadness to come to the surface and curls his hands into fists. The sudden change in his attitude shocks Courfeyrac, Combeferre can see it in the slight widening of his eyes, but Courfeyrac remains silent. 

“You have the nerve,” he growls, his voice sharp, “to call me childish? After bringing me here with no forewarning, getting me to play along with your pathetic plan and then choosing to ignore me with your constant mood swings- you have the absolute _fucking nerve_ to call me childish?”

“I-“

“You’re a coward, Courfeyrac. I love you, heaven knows how dearly, and I play along with your absurd ideas because I care for you, but I am up to my wits end with this whole thing. Either do your damn job, or let me go.”

Combeferre doesn't know how they went from kissing to fighting, they haven't fought in years. He doesn't know why Courfeyrac's cheeks are flushed, or why his chest is heaving even though he hasn't said a word. He sees something flash in Courfeyrac's eyes and flinches, suddenly scared when Courfeyrac raises a disbelieving eyebrow. 

“ _I’m_ the coward? You’re the one who can’t even admit that you’ve been in love with me for ten years but you call _me_ a coward?”

Combeferre feels as if he's been slapped, as if whatever fine line they've been balancing on for the past few days has snapped. Combeferre feels exposed, vulnerable, lost of a home. He watches realisation flicker across Courfeyrac's face as he realises what he's said, sees an apology already tumbling from his lips. But Combeferre can't _breathe_ , can't hear a thing past the rush of blood in his ears.  He stands slowly, nails digging into the palm of his hand. 

“I think we’re done here.” Combeferre is surprised at how calm he sounds when in reality, his world has come crashing down around him. Everything he's been trying to hold together has fallen apart. This isn't anger, Combeferre rarely does anger, and it isn't frustration. It's hurt beyond belief. What he feels now can only be classified as emptiness. Heartbreak, maybe.

He ignores Courfeyrac's tentative call of his name as he rifles through his wardrobe, doesn't care about modesty or shame as he changes into jeans and a warm jumper, only making sure that neither belong to Courfeyrac before pulling them on. He wants to know how Courfeyrac found out, though he can already guess the answer. He wants to shout and scream and tell Courfeyrac it isn’t fair to use his emotions against him, wants to punch him for being so cruel. Except his body feels impossibly weak. He’s drained and defeated and tired, so so tired.

He heads towards the door, making sure that there’s nothing of Courfeyrac’s in his satchel as he searches for his phone.

“Combeferre,” Courfeyrac tries, voice pleading. “Where are you going?”

Combeferre shakes his head, unable to reply, and is overcome with guilt as he passes Michael's bedroom and makes his way down the stairs. There's an odd silence in the house that alerts Combeferre everyone might not be as asleep as he thinks, and he hates that it heightens his awareness of Courfeyrac's every breath. 

There’s a last minute flight back home that he might be able to catch, he notes absently as he scrolls through his phone, seats available to book at check-in. 

Courfeyrac sounds closer now, his voice hoarse. “Don't leave, please don't leave.”

If anyone could make Combeferre do something, it would Courfeyrac. Yet Combeferre finds the strength to ignore it as the taxi he'd texted for only moments ago pulls up the driveway, flashing its lights at him as he stands in the doorway. It's then, and only then, when everything is arranged and Combeferre can't back out, that he allows himself to turn around. 

Courfeyrac is barely a breath away from him, eyes rimmed red with tears Combeferre hadn't known were falling, and his hands are shaking at his sides. Combeferre wants nothing more than to pull Courfeyrac close to him, to run his thumb against the inside of Courfeyrac's wrist, press their foreheads together and calm him, tell him that it's okay. But it's not, not anymore, and Combeferre can't lie to himself for Courfeyrac's sake.

Combeferre lifts his palm to cup Courfeyrac’s cheek and smiles sadly, breath hitching when Courfeyrac grasps his wrist so tightly Combeferre fears he won't let go. He gently runs his knuckles down Courfeyrac's cheek, kisses the corner of his mouth in a bittersweet goodbye, and tries his hardest not to cry when Courfeyrac repeats his name over and over, begging for him to stay. 

-

There are no more cliché’s after that; Courfeyrac doesn’t run through the airport to stop him from catching his flight and Combeferre doesn’t wait for him with false hope . Instead, he turns his phone off as soon as he gets in the taxi, boarding the plane without checking his messages.

He spends most of Christmas Eve cleaning the house and sorting through his mail, trying hard to ignore what feels like a gaping hole by his side. He cries over a mug of coffee at ten am in the morning and realises that, unlike his mother's funeral, Courfeyrac will not show up with a small hand-picked bouquet of flowers to hold him close and dry his tears. Combeferre thinks to send Enjolras a text, to seek out comfort in the form of his best friend, but his hands shake as he types the text and it ends up in his drafts folder, unsent. 

Michael calls him half way through dinner, his voice muffled as if he's hiding away. 

"Are you alright?" 

Combeferre chokes back a sob, rubs at his eyes furiously. "Do I have to answer?" 

"I'll hurt him for you." And Michael sounds serious, as serious as he did when Combeferre had revealed his feelings for Courfeyrac at university. 

"Don't- it wasn't his fault." 

Michael laughs; the sound is chilling. "He told me what he said, Combeferre." 

It makes sense, of course Courfeyrac would tell Michael. Combeferre makes sure to breathe, feeling his face cool down as he hears carols playing faintly in the background. 

"We miss you, everyone else thinks you were called for work." Michael eventually sighs,  _he_ misses you left unsaid. "Try to have a good Christmas, little brother." 

"I miss them too." Combeferre takes another ragged breath. "You too, Michael." 

They end the call a few moments later. Combeferre feels drained after it, and he reads through one of his papers before finally retiring to bed. He dreams of kisses that taste of hot cocoa and the never-ending hum of christmas carols, tangled bodies cocooned in warm blankets and the sound of paper being torn followed by shrieks of delight and gratefulness. He thinks of three siblings sprawled on top of each other as they finish of the last of the cake and how the one on top will have eyes the colour of melted chocolate. 

This is why, when the doorbell rings at seven in the morning on Christmas day, Combeferre is not prepared to see that very sibling stood in the hallway, his nose as red as his eyes.

He shakes his head and closes the door, only to open it again and realise that yes, that really _is_ Courfeyrac stood outside his apartment. For a moment, Combeferre feels as if his legs will gave way beneath him and grips the handle tightly, before turning on his heel and heading towards the living room. Courfeyrac follows after him, throwing his coat haphazardly onto the back of the sofa before he sits opposite Combeferre, and it's so natural, so normal, that Combeferre is willing to forget the past twenty-four hours to maintain this small shred of normalcy. 

“I’m an ass,” Courfeyrac finally murmurs as he runs a hand through his curls. Combeferre nods in agreement and waits for Courfeyrac to continue, looking at him from the corner of his eye. “I shouldn’t have said what I did, and I really shouldn’t have used it against you. There’s no excuse for that.”

“Quite right.” Combeferre’s voice is hoarse, having not spoken to anyone for the past day. Courfeyrac’s head snaps up to look at him, his mouth pursed. He’s been biting his lips raw, Combeferre notes, the skin red and sore.

“You’re dear to me Combeferre, and I don’t want to lose you.” Courfeyrac trails off, avoiding Combeferre’s gaze. And Combeferre knows, knows that despite their years together and how wonderful they could have been, that it’ll be impossible to go back to the way things were.

“Courfeyrac, it’s fine. We’re okay. I just need a few days rest and everything will be alright.”

It won’t, it hasn’t been okay for a long time. They haven’t been okay since mid-June where Courfeyrac took Combeferre out on a date and then spent the afternoon kissing every inch of him under an overgrown willow tree. But if anything, Combeferre is always willing to pretend. 

“Would you _stop_?” Courfeyrac’s voice cuts through the silence, eyes hard as he turns to look at Combeferre. “Stop pretending that I didn’t hurt you or that you’ve forgiven me. _I_ wouldn’t forgive me. You’re allowed to hate me Combeferre, I don't think I'd be able to cope with it very long, but you can tell me to go away right now and I wouldn't fault you for it.”

Combeferre sighs, fiddles with a loose thread on the cushion. “I don’t think I have it in me. I’m weak as well as a coward and-“

“No, god no.” Courfeyrac interrupts, reaching across the sofa to hold Combeferre’s hands between his. Combeferre curses under his breath as Courfeyrac begins to rub small circles on his wrists, watching as Courfeyrac screws his eyes shut and shakes his head furiously. “You’re one of the strongest people I know.”

“Not strong enough for you, it seems.” Combeferre can’t help it, despite how much he hates himself for sounding so self-deprecating.

“Combeferre-“

“I’m sorry, I’m being stupid. I’ll be okay.” Combeferre’s voice is soft, and he gently pulls his hands away, ignores the hurt in Courfeyrac’s eyes. “Thank you, for coming over.”

Combeferre gets up from the sofa, heading towards the kitchen. He stops when Courfeyrac speaks, his voice quiet.

“Why don’t you hate me?”

Turning around slowly, Combeferre wraps his arms around his torso, and stares at Courfeyrac silently, taking him in. Courfeyrac’s eyes are bloodshot, Combeferre doesn’t want to know whether these are from tears or lack of sleep, his hair is wild and yet still curled to perfection and there are small bags under his eyes. Half of his shirt is untucked and his laces untied, his right wrist covered in a multitude of bracelets.

"Don't make me say it." 

Courfeyrac opens his mouth, closes it, but then shakes his head. "How can you not hate me?" 

“Don’t you get it, you foolish man? I’m in love with you.”

It’s as if something breaks between them, as if saying those words aloud change everything. Combeferre feels like he’s drowning and weightless all at once, can only stare wide eyed as several emotions flicker across Courfeyrac's face, the winter sun reflecting in his eyes so they appear golden.

“You’re-you’re really good at hiding how you feel, you know?" Courfeyrac breathes out, slowly gaining confidence as he speaks. "You’re so incredibly difficult to read sometimes and it’s worrying because, I can read you better than anyone else. So when I don’t get what you’re feeling I just, I don’t know what to do with that.”

“Sorry, I-I don’t follow.”

“I’ve tried so hard to make you see how much I love you – I’ve done the stupidest things to prove it. And you’ve never once shown me anything other than friendship. So when I heard the other day that you loved me, that you’ve loved me for so long, I got angry because I hadn’t seen it. Because I’d been so caught up in trying to get you to notice me, that I forgot you might have something to say too. I got angry at myself for putting you in such an uncomfortable position and I just – I’m so sorry, I really am.”

Combeferre leans against the wall, too scared to breathe. 

“And it’s hard, you know?” Courfeyrac sounds frustrated, wringing his hands together. “To be in love with someone twice as smart and funny, twice as everything than you are. It’s hard being in love with someone so much better than you.”

“You– ” Combeferre stumbles forward, Courfeyrac immediately reaching out to steady him. There's a small, hesitant smile playing on the edges of his lips when Combeferre across at him in wonder.

“I’m in love with you. And I haven’t know for that long, not as long as you, but I know it as the truest thing in my heart.”

The silence between holds something different, something that allows Combeferre to breathe a little easier. He runs his hands up Courfeyrac's arms, squeezes his shoulders and tries desperately to hold onto this reality. 

“You’re still an ass.” Combeferre finally mutters, tugging at a stray curl that falls over Courfeyrac's ear.

“I know.” Courfeyrac laughs when Combeferre rolls his eyes, and continues laughing when he leans forward to capture Combeferre's lips in a gentle kiss. Combeferre can feel him grin against his mouth and makes a surprised sound at the back of his throat, immediately falling pliant to his touch. The kisses are chaste at first, playful, as Courfeyrac continuously pulls back to look down at Combeferre with something akin to awe. Combeferre stops him moving away soon enough, intertwining his fingers behind Courfeyrac's neck and kissing the younger man till both of them are gasping into each other's mouths, lips swollen. 

Combeferre is still worried that they’ll break, that whatever they have won’t last because miracles like this don't happen, not even on Christmas. But then Courfeyrac presses their foreheads together, forcing Combeferre to meet his gaze, and smiles gently, dimples deep set in his cheeks. 

“We can do this, you and I.”

Combeferre bites his lip. “What if we can’t?”

“Have you ever doubted us before?” Courfeyrac asks, kissing Combeferre’s small frown.

“Not at all.”

“Well don’t start. You’re wonderful and kind and smart and so incredibly difficult and – I need you.”

“You need me?” Combeferre can feel blood rushing to his cheeks and ducks his head at the confession. It's different, hearing the world out loud. He knows that Courfeyrac needs him, in the same way that Combeferre needs Courfeyrac - they maintain a balance, keep each other grounded. But this is more than need, more than-

“I need you to live and breathe. I need you in my life every single day because I- I love you.” Courfeyrac's skin is warm and his eyes are radiant, and Combeferre is reminded of why he calls Courfeyrac sunshine. 

“I think I need you too.” Combeferre finally mumbles, rolling his eyes when Courfeyrac knocks their hips together.

“I think you should kiss me now.”

So Combeferre does.


End file.
